


Residual Affection

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Horror, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 18:11:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4756154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weeks after the Fischer job, Eames comes to a stark realization: Fischer remembers some of what happened in the dream.  Fischer has sent people to track down Cobb's team, Eames included.  As Eames runs between countries and continents, he realizes Arthur might be his best chance at survival.  (It's a shame because Arthur hates him--doesn't he?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Residual Affection

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first real foray into the Inception fandom! Very exciting. I've been sitting on this for a few weeks now, and I've been meaning to get it beta-read and all that jazz but right now I'm a little down so I thought, why not post it now? So here we are.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Nervous” wasn’t in Eames’ repertoire.  Even on the Fischer case, he’d been furious at Cobb, furious at Arthur for missing the mark’s training, but if he died, he died.  Eames had never made bones about death.  It was part of the business, and he didn’t worry about it.

That changed.

It had begun when Fischer started appearing on the news.  Eames had been lying low in New Delhi when the first reports of Fischer’s decision to break up his father’s empire came rolling in.  Eames initially followed the resultant scandal with rapt attention.  Every time those cheekbones and those impossibly blue eyes showed up on the screen, Eames felt a pang of pride.  He was responsible for the very public downfall that the media smeared across every two-bit scandal sheet the world over.  Cobb’s plan, mad as it had been, had worked.  Not only that, but Eames had more money than he’d had in a long while squirreled away across several accounts in several countries and no one on the team had come to a bad outcome to get there.  For all intents and purposes, they’d made a killing and gone on with their lives.

The more he saw Fischer’s face plastered across the news, though, the more a certain pit in Eames’ stomach grew.  He felt eyes on him in bars, in the street, in the dim-lit room he rented.  The obvious explanation blared from the front of every television set Eames had come across to date: Fischer.  He had a militarized subconscious; maybe he’d remembered.  Eames had made the most direct contact with the man throughout the job and as such was most likely to be recalled at the end of the dreamshare.

The _what if_ questions dogged Eames’ very steps.  He changed his routines, went home by roundabout ways, didn’t spend any money.  He still felt the eyes.  He changed tactics, normalized his routes, bought cameras and planted them at his new frequent haunts.  Nothing turned up, but the feeling refused to dissipate.

A few days into his two week panic, Eames began to make calls.  If Fischer were on the prowl, Eames might not be the only target.

The first Eames thought to contact was Yusuf.  All told, Eames liked Yusuf.  Eames thought him brilliant, if a bit overbearing.  Like Eames, Yusuf wasn’t an emotional sort, and they were friends in the sense of people who fell in with one another by way of proximity and a shared sense of the way the world worked.

Yusuf did not answer the first time, nor the second.  The third time Eames called, he found that the line had been disconnected.  Yusuf’s primary number no longer existed.

No matter.  Yusuf regularly dealt with an even seedier world than Eames did.  Chemicals for a PASIV weren’t all Yusuf knew how to synthesize, and they certainly weren’t the primary moneymakers.  Yusuf had burner on top of burner, and Eames knew the numbers to them all.

One by one, Eames called.  One by one, he received no answer, no answer, no answer.

Yusuf’s apparent disappearance fanned the flames of Eames’ nervousness.  His mind ran rampant with possibilities.  Perhaps Yusuf had dropped off of the map to build himself a new world.  There was enough money to make even the gravest of mistakes disappear without a trace.  Yusuf could have decided that he’d flown under the radar for long enough and gotten out of the dreamshare business for good.

Just to make sure, Eames got on a plane and went back to Mombasa.  He wandered familiar streets, a single duffel bag slung across his back.  The feeling of being watched was intensified in Mombasa, but Eames chalked that up to an unusual degree of recognition by locals.  He’d stayed in Mombasa for quite some time before Cobb picked him up, and it hadn’t been that long since the end of the job.  Even so, Eames made an effort to try to blend in.  It was a shame, he thought, that his skill as a forger of appearances was limited to dreamspace.  It was a talent he sorely missed in reality.

By the time Eames arrived at the shop Yusuf used to cover his real business, Eames had nearly calmed himself down.  He was paranoid, he reasoned, and he needed to get over it.  As soon as he laid eyes on Yusuf, or at least saw who Yusuf had sold his business to, he’d be right as rain.

All of Eames’ hard-won calm went out the window upon arriving at Yusuf’s old shop.  Someone had boarded up the broken, dirty windows with splintering wood.  The front door was unlocked, but as Eames quickly learned upon stepping inside, the electricity had been turned off and the shop was vacant.  The space smelled like dust and decay, and there were several broken bottles of something sticky on the floor and the counters.  Away from the bottles by Yusuf’s old desk, dark stains remained where something else had dried days ago.

Whoever was following Eames had gotten to Yusuf first.  He’d put up a fight, but he was gone.

Eames felt sick.  As he stepped out of the dilapidated shop, a pair of children ran across the street, giggling and chasing one another.  A hunched old man with a rusty shopping cart pushed up little clouds of dust as he walked, his back to Eames.  It was just as hot here as New Delhi, and Eames’ head felt like cotton.  Whoever was following Eames had gotten to Yusuf first, and they were unlikely to leave him alone for long.

* * *

Eames booked flights to Bangkok and Phnom Penh both.  He flipped a coin to determine which would be his actual destination in the hopes of throwing off whoever Fischer had sent to grab him.

As soon as Eames touched down in Bangkok, Eames called a car, then Cobb.  As much as he disliked and distrusted the man after all that he’d done, he was an extractor and a manipulator.  Eames thought he might be needing that specific skill set soon.

The phone rang five times.

“Hello?”

“Cobb?” Eames asked.

“Not quite.  Mr. Eames, is it?” the voice said.  “Professor Stephen Miles, if you remember.  Dom’s indisposed at the moment.  Might I take a message?”

“No,” Eames said, sharper than he’d intended.  He could hear something in the background.  Was someone shouting?  “I need to speak to him personally regarding a job.  Where might I find him?”

“Dom’s out of your line of work now,” Miles said.  There was a loud _bang_ from Miles’ end of the call.  “Are you all right?”

Eames hung up without answering.  Something about Miles’ voice and tone seemed off.  Eames shook himself and tried not to think about it as the car he’d ordered pulled up to the curb at the airport.  Eames gave an address for a shoddy hotel he’d stayed at years ago and stepped into the back.

All throughout the ride, though, Eames mind wandered.  Cobb was _indisposed_ , whatever that was code for.  He didn’t want to think about the background noise, so he racked his brain for anything that might ameliorate his situation.

If Yusuf’s shop hadn’t confirmed Eames to be more than just paranoid, the black sedan that had been following his car for the last few miles did the trick.  Eames tipped his driver excessively, checked into the hotel, and locked himself in his room.  He checked the windows, under the bed, in the closet—anywhere he could find, he looked.  Eames was on the lookout for cameras, wires, anything that could be used to track his location.  He planned on dropping his mobile as soon as he finished making calls.

That being said, the one he would have liked to have spoken to was the one whose number he didn’t have.

Saito.  The man with enough money to make whatever trouble the team was collectively in go away.  Incidentally, he was the only person other than Fischer with the ability to target the team he’d hired.  Eames frowned to think of him.  He wouldn’t have hired them all, paid them all out, and then set them up to be killed.  Would he?

Eames’ hotel might have been shoddy, but he could get a wifi signal.  In the internet café on the first floor, he did a quick search without expecting to find anything.  What he discovered shouldn’t have been as shocking to him as it was.

Mr. R.X. Saito, chair of Proclus Global, had been considered missing as of yesterday.

Eames shut his eyes and leaned back in the tiny plastic thing that passed as a chair.  Saito wasn’t the hunter, he was amongst the hunted.  Fischer had found out about the job.  Yusuf, Saito, potentially Cobb—they were all gone.  Eames’ options were limited.

Much as he didn’t like to, he called Ariadne.

He’d held off on contacting her for one simple reason: Fischer had never seen Ariadne.  She’d had the least exposure throughout the operation by virtue of her position as architect.  The youngest and newest to the world of dreamshare, she would be nearly unfindable unless someone gave up her position.  Even contacting her could prove to be risky, and Eames would never forgive himself if he put her in danger.  He already couldn’t forgive Cobb for sending her down into the dreamscape in the first place.

Now, though, there were three people who could have given her up long before Eames got involved.  Cobb liked her too much to give up her location, and Yusuf wasn’t one to talk, but Saito…?  Eames couldn’t speak to Saito’s character.  It was possible that Saito had ratted on them all to save his own skin.

With another deep breath, Eames logged off of the computer and headed up to his room.  Even if Saito hadn’t talked, Eames knew that Fischer’s people would come looking for her eventually, and unless she acted quickly, there would be nothing she could do to escape without help.

In the safety of his room, Eames dialed the only number she’d given him.  Her mobile—Eames remembered her saying that she always had it with her and regularly got in trouble in class because she kept forgetting to silence it—rang and rang and rang.  Eames’ blood was cold in spite of the heat.  They’d found Ariadne, too.

* * *

As soon as Eames had realized that Ariadne was gone—Eames wasn’t sure he wanted to examine the implications of what being “gone” might ultimately mean—Eames went to a bar and got wasted.  Ariadne was a good kid, but not much more than that.  She was a _child_.  Eames had been young when he’d started, as had Arthur, but Ariadne had an innocence that neither of them had ever had.  She’d been good.  Eames downed a shot and ordered another one.

The dirt-encrusted television set mounted in a corner above the bar cheerfully informed Eames that it was the twenty-second of February and just over 36 C.  Eames believed it.  The bartender wasn’t wearing a shirt, and sweat poured in rivulets down his spine.  Eames might have been a laid back sort of fellow, but he had principles, and as a result, his own shirt was stuck to every available inch of his torso.  It itched and caught, and with every twitch he was reminded of trying to move in a cast.  Eames’ shot glass was sweating, too.  Soon, there would be more water than alcohol in and on his cup.

Outside, Eames could see the heat as it radiated off of the ground.  The roads roasted and baked and cracked in the endless sunshine.  The streets themselves were mostly clear.  Merchants couldn’t make a living selling on the streets, not that day.  Those optimistic sellers who thought that the oppressive heat would burn off cowered and huddled together under tents and awnings, fanning themselves with leaves and pamphlets.  There wares sat unattended beside them.  When Eames inhaled, he caught the sweet smell of rotting fruit turning sour in the sun as opposed to the usual burn of spice and gasoline.  He could hear, too, animals in their cages, chickens and other small fowl, clucking and squawking and screaming for water.

Eames wanted to lay his head down on the bar.  Ariadne was gone.  Somehow, she hit him the hardest.  He hadn’t liked Cobb, never had.  Saito’s disappearance should have been the most terrifying, if only because he should have been the hardest to grab.  Yusuf was his friend, he should have mattered more, and yet Ariadne stuck out in Eames’ mind.  His fingers itched to do something other than drink, but he kept coming up short.  There was nothing for him to do.

He downed his last shot and stood.  The bartender pretended not to see him.  Eames put down too much money and left.

It was early yet.  Eames had lost track of time, but it was too early to have had so many drinks.  Then again, it was too early for it to be so bloody hot, so he figured it all balanced in the end.  Arthur would like that: balance.

He thought about Arthur as he returned to his room.  Arthur.

In many ways, Eames blamed Arthur for all of this.  Eames would have never gotten involved if not for Arthur.  Eames was willing to admit, if only to himself, that while Cobb had hooked him with the concept of inception, he’d reeled him in with the mention of Arthur.  The bastard had known it, too.  Trust the most unhinged extractor to be the best manipulator.  All it had taken was one tiny mention—that Arthur was already on the job—and Eames was ready to pack his bags.

Arthur.  Eames shuddered as he peeled himself out of his shirt.  He cast it aside and stripped his trousers, too, then all but collapsed on the sheets.  With the lights off and a fan running, it was cooler than it had been in the bar, but the sheets soaked up the sweat off of Eames’ back and clung to him just like his shirt had.  It was all he could do not to scream.

Arthur had liked Ariadne, Eames remembered.  Eames had liked her as a person, but Arthur had liked her in a different sort of way.  It was so difficult to tell with Arthur.  He wasn’t a romantic type, yet there had been romance simmering under the surface between him and Ariadne.  Eames scowled at the ceiling at the thought.  All he wanted was for someone to return his calls, to tell him that everything was all right even though it so obviously wasn’t.  He’d spent two weeks worrying and traipsing across country lines looking for Cobb’s team only to come up short.  All he had to show for his efforts was exhaustion, and now he was dirty and wasted, too.

Wasted enough to consider calling Arthur.

Eames didn’t have a particular reason why he hadn’t called Arthur yet.  Perhaps it was because Eames didn’t want to look like a damned fool in front of him.  Perhaps it was because Arthur was just as likely as not to leave him to the dogs.  (That wasn’t true and Eames knew it.  What was true was that Arthur hated him.)  He’d come for Ariadne, though.  Anyone would come to get Ariadne.

Eames shut his eyes and felt the sweat well across his body.  It was pooling in his palms and in the divot just above his lip.  If Arthur didn’t answer, Eames wasn’t sure what he would do.

He was also never going to find out unless he gathered up the courage to dial a handful of numbers.  If he said a prayer while he did so, well, no one had to know.

The phone rang once.

“Hello?”

Arthur’s voice was sharp.  He was irritated—that much was clear from that single word—and under any normal circumstances, it would have inspired irritation in Eames as well.  As it was, Eames just laughed.

“Hello?” Arthur asked again.  If anything, he’d become sharper.  Eames knew from experience that he was moments away from hanging up.

“Hello, Arthur,” Eames said.  He tried not to let relief bleed into his words.  He wanted to be sick and smile at the same time.

After a beat, Arthur said, “Eames.  To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?”

Eames hesitated, then asked, “Have you contacted anyone?”

“What?”

“Cobb’s team.”

There was a silence long enough that Eames nearly asked if Arthur was still on the line.  “No,” Arthur said.

“No,” Eames repeated.  “I’ve tried.  Been trying for weeks.  Can’t find anyone.”

“No one,” Arthur said.

“Not even Ariadne,” Eames said.  “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“You think someone found out about the job,” Arthur said bluntly, and there it was.

“I can’t find anyone,” Eames repeated.  “Only you.”

Eames heard Arthur breathing across the line.  He’d never been quite so grateful to hear the steady in-out, in-out.

“Where are you?” Arthur asked finally.

“Bangkok, for the moment.  I don’t know if Fischer’s people have followed me here.  It’s possible.”

Arthur made a noise.  “How long have you been there?”

“Few hours,” Eames said.  “Nearly a day.  Haven’t slept.  I know Bangkok backwards and forwards, you know.  I’ve got enemies here, but nothing like this.”

“How long before you can leave?”

Eames smiled to himself.  Leave it to Arthur to have a plan.  “Few hours,” he said, eying his few packed possessions.

“Get yourself a ticket to New York City.  J.F.K. International, if you can swing it, La Guardia if you can’t.  We’ll talk when you get here.”

“We’re meeting up?” Eames asked.  He felt his heart rolling in his chest and cursed himself.  He hadn’t expected that.  The line beeped to tell Eames that Arthur had already disconnected the call.  Leave it to Arthur to give orders and not wait to see if there were any questions.

Still, Eames felt better than he had in weeks.  He repacked his duffel bag and returned to the internet café to buy himself a one-way ticket to New York City.

* * *

Eames rode in business class.  Economy had too many people and first was too flashy, but business was a nice middle ground.  He hadn’t had any trouble on planes before, which made him curious as to how Fischer’s people were following him, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

Perhaps because he was worried about it, his well-intentioned decision backfired spectacularly.  Everywhere he looked, people were turning away as if embarrassed to be caught staring at him.  He could feel the eyes of passengers and crew members boring holes through his clothing and tunneling under his skin.  He itched with the urge to drink, and he very nearly upgraded his seat so he could do exactly that.

The thought of Arthur waiting for him at the airport soothed him somewhat, until Eames realized that he was just leading Fischer’s people straight to the one they hadn’t found yet.  Had Eames been able to access his mobile, he might have called the plan off and told Arthur to run.  He might have given himself up to whatever was coming.

As it was, though, Eames had never been a selfless man, and by the time the idea came to him, they were already tens of thousands of miles above sea level.  The plan was in place, and there was no going back.  Eames sat rigidly for the duration of the flight, unable to eat or sleep for fear that his watchers might decide to do something more than observe.

* * *

J.F.K. International was a large, busy airport.  Eames had been there many times before, but it never made it any easier to navigate.

Fischer must have had hundreds of people hunting for him, Eames realized with a sick jolt.  He knew that there were few limits on what money could buy, but this?  The people he passed in the airport watched him openly.  They bumped shoulders with him, nearly collided with him, and still they refused to look away.  Eames shuddered and tried to ignore them.  He considered running but feared they’d take a more active approach if he did.  He needed to get to Arthur, and that was that.

Eames had never been so grateful to leave an airport terminal.  He bypassed the baggage claim area, gripping his duffel bag closely as he did, and made a beeline for the exit.  Outside, there were people standing at a barricade, many of them with signs for friends or loved ones or tour groups.  They didn’t, Eames noted, so much as glance at him.  Near the end of the barricade, without a sign and without an expectant smile, was Arthur.

There were many things Eames considered saying to Arthur when Eames caught sight of him standing in the airport, gazing distractedly at passengers as they filed out of the terminal.  ‘Thank you’ was up there in several variations, as was ‘We need to run’.

What came out was, “Well, don’t you look dapper this morning?”

And it was morning.  Eames quietly cursed every time zone he’d crossed through because he was going to have terrible jet lag and what with the not sleeping and the not eating on the plane, he was already doomed.

Arthur scowled at him.  “I suppose that’s what I get for trying to pull you out of the fire.  For the record, you look like hell.”

“Pull away, my dear,” Eames said, ignoring the dig at his appearances.  He was well aware that circumstances were not amenable to his looking as immaculate as he would like.  He shifted his duffel back from one shoulder to the next.  “They’re here.  Don’t know how many.  We should move.”

“That all you have?” Arthur asked, looking pointedly at his bag.

“I decided to travel light,” Eames said, unsure if he was being mocked or not.  With Arthur, it was so hard to tell.  Eames usually relished the challenge, but in that moment, he was far too tired to enjoy their usual banter.

Sensing this, Arthur quirked a half-smile and placed a hand on Eames’ back.  “Good,” he said, glancing over one shoulder. If he saw something that bothered him, he didn’t show it.  “Let’s move.”

Arthur led Eames out of the airport without ever losing physical contact.  Eames wondered if this was Arthur’s way of being reassuring.  If so, it was working.  Eames felt better than he had in weeks.

“You’ve got a car?” Eames asked absently.

Arthur fished a set of keys out of his pocket.  “That one,” he said, pointing to a car parked just a few meters away.  Eames huffed a laugh.  Arthur would drive a black Lexus.

“I hope you didn’t rent one just for me,” Eames said, loading his bag into the trunk.

“I didn’t,” Arthur said.  He was already situated in the driver’s seat.  “No drooling on the seats.”

“I would never,” Eames said.  He slid into the passenger seat and buckled in.  “I didn’t think they let you park this close.”

Arthur shrugged.  “I didn’t think you were one for rules.”  He glanced in the rear view mirror once, then pulled away from the curb.

“First things first,” Arthur said.  Even while hungry and exhausted, Eames recognized Arthur’s slip into his business voice.  “We need to get away from people.  The less populated the area, the more Fischer’s people will stand out.”

“You agree that it’s Fischer,” Eames said.

“I don’t always disagree with you, Eames,” Arthur said.  “Only when you’re wrong.  I made a few calls myself just to make sure it wasn’t just you.”

Eames’ gut twisted.  “So you know about Ariadne.”

Arthur smiled slightly.  The sky was watery and gray, and the sun shone weakly.  Absently, Eames shivered.  It was much, _much_ colder in North America in February than in southeast Asia.

“Yes,” Arthur said finally.  Seconds ticked by in silence as Arthur took them out of the airport loop and onto the road.

“I’m sorry,” Eames said finally.

“Don’t be,” Arthur said shortly.  “She knew the risks coming in.”

 _No, she didn’t_ , Eames thought.  She had no way of understanding.  Based on what he gleaned from their few conversations, Cobb had all but thrown her into dreamshare.  He’d gotten her hooked on the endless creation before pushing the job onto her.  She had read none of the PASIV literature—something even Eames had done—and she’d never had a proper series of trial runs.  When Eames had started to learn to forge, his mentor had taken him down several times for practice runs in controlled environments.  Cobb might have tried to teach Ariadne, and Arthur had certainly done his best, but given that Ariadne’s second dreamshare (the first was always a disaster so Eames didn’t count it) ended with Mal spilling Ariadne’s intestines, Eames couldn’t give him credit.

Eames waited, but Arthur said nothing more.  Eames didn’t know what to say.  Ariadne was gone and Arthur clearly didn’t want to talk about her.  Arthur careened between lanes, driving perhaps a bit too fast for the kind of traffic they were experiencing.  As soon as they were on a highway, though, Arthur floored it.  A country that Eames had only seen in passing flashed by the windows.

“Mind if I play some music?” Arthur asked suddenly.

“It’s your car,” Eames said.  Arthur made no move.  “No, I don’t mind.”

Arthur punched several buttons on the radio, and the speakers bloomed to life.

When Eames went on jobs that involved dreamshare, he always made a request of the architect: a space, wherever they were, for him to get into character.  He liked having three mirrors, good lighting, and several boxes unfilled by the architect.  Those boxes he filled himself.  Eames put all of his forge’s details and mannerisms, favorite clothing brands, even their preferred restaurants and wines, into those boxes.  In dreamshare, he could examine each piece, don them like armor, to truly _become_ the person he meant to forge.

He had a box like that for Arthur.  He knew what sorts of suits Arthur preferred—he only had the one bespoke suit; the rest were classic Armani pieces that a good tailor had fitted.  Black leather Oxfords with dark cashmere socks were a must.  He liked to carry his wallet in his left breast pocket, all cards and IDs on one side, extraneous items and cash on the other.  Though right handed, Arthur preferred his left when drinking and often wrote with whichever hand was free.

All of that and much, much more besides, Eames knew from experience.  Other things, Eames had filled in.  In his mind, Arthur hated tea.  Eames had never seen him so much as look at tea, but he had a feeling and so he ran with it.  Eames’ idea of Arthur also included: drinking expensive liquor on rare special occasions, reading spy novels in his spare time, and keeping an extensive toilette.  Eames’ dream-Arthur played piano and liked Classical music, knew his way around theatre but didn’t love it as much as Cobb and Mal had, and could outsmart an above-average chess player easily.

For all that Eames had thought about what Arthur would and wouldn’t like, jazz music, swingy and soulful and loud, wasn’t what he’d expected to hear in Arthur’s car.  Eames had always liked jazz of all varieties.  He didn’t recognize what Arthur was playing, but Eames could make out trombones and trumpets coupled with drums and a heavy bass.  A woman with an enormously deep, scratchy voice sang over it all.

“You really don’t need to play that for me,” Eames said uncertainly.

“You like jazz?”

“Of course,” Eames answered honestly.  He’d found years ago that Arthur could spot a lie faster than he could blink.

“I like it,” Arthur said.  He shrugged without taking his eyes off of the road.  Eames, normally comfortable in any situation, found himself hesitant to glance at the speedometer.  They were driving so fast, Eames could hardly make out what they were passing.

Eames lost himself in the music.  He was tired, and the words washed over him without registering at all.  The tempo went up and down between fast and slow, upbeat and melancholy, and Eames didn’t bother to even try to trace a pattern.  He thought he might have heard the strains of something familiar—not English, at least, perhaps Italian? Since when did Arthur listen to Italian jazz?—before Arthur spoke again.

“We’re headed north,” Arthur said.

“Are we?” Eames asked.  He tried to sound sarcastic, but the yawn that cut in halfway through ruined the effect.

After a moment, Arthur added, “I know New England.”

Arthur seemed to be waiting for something, so Eames said, “That’s good.  I have no idea where we’re going, so I have to trust you.”

Something moved in Arthur’s expression, and he said, “There are lots of cities up here, but lots of empty space, too.  Fewer people, which will be both good and bad.”

“Good because we see Fischer’s people coming from miles away,” Eames said.

“Bad because in the short term we attract more local attention than is preferable,” Arthur added.  “That doesn’t have to be a disadvantage, though.  If they were already on to you, it was only a matter of time.  The more we stand out, the faster we get this out of the way.  No reason to make a scene.”  Eames wanted to say something witty, but Arthur glanced at him and offered a quick, almost shy smile.

“That’s good,” Eames said.  The smile widened a bit.  “That’s very good.”

And it was, in Eames’ eyes, in a sort of cruel way.  There was no sense in prolonging the chase.

“I’m glad you came.”

The words were blurted so quickly with so little enunciation that Eames wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“Beg pardon?”

Arthur’s mouth was doing something that looked painful.  He was obviously embarrassed as he repeated, “I’m glad you came.”

Eames nodded once shortly, sure that Arthur caught the gesture out of the corner of his eye.  He listened as Arthur continued.

“Dom once told me that in dreams our weaknesses become our strengths.”  Arthur spoke quietly.  At some point, he’d turned the music down so that the repeatedly blaring horns were nothing but a dull throb underneath his words.  “In reality—here—pulling the trigger doesn’t come naturally.  I can, and I have, but,” Arthur hesitated, “it’s—difficult—in a way that it isn’t in the dream.  Maybe it’s consequences, maybe it’s something else.”

“I know what you mean,” Eames said, sensing that Arthur wanted him to speak.  “I stick out like a sore thumb.”  Arthur chuckled, and Eames said, “It’s true, and you know it.  You’ve told me often enough.  In dreams I can become something else entirely.  Be anyone, do anything.  There’s unlimited potential and knowledge there.”

Arthur smiled.  The embarrassed look had finally gone away.  “I’m glad you came,” Arthur repeated.  “We don’t have to do this by ourselves.”

Distantly, Eames thought that was an odd thing for Arthur to say, but Arthur was still smiling that half-smile that indicated that he really meant it and he was saying that Eames _mattered_.

“I’m glad you answered,” Eames found himself saying.  “I’m glad you came for me.”

* * *

At some point, Eames fell asleep in Arthur’s car.  The horns and the bass in the music did their best to keep them awake, as did that voice, but Eames was too exhausted to do anything more than resolutely tuck his chin against his shoulder and close his eyes.

When Arthur shook him awake, Eames didn’t recognize any of their surroundings.  It was colder, though not by much.  He could make out a sea of gray-purple-green trees, tall pines whose tips were obscured by mist.  Snow clung to their roots and outlined rocks.  The sky had completely clouded over.  It was a far cry from the tropics Eames knew so well, but it made sense, given Arthur.  If Arthur were a landscape, this would be it: unchanging and stark.

“We’re in Massachusetts,” Arthur said simply.

Eames realized that they were still driving.

“Why’d you wake me?” Eames grumbled.  Arthur said something unintelligible.  “What?”

“You were snoring,” Arthur said stiffly.

Eames stifled a laugh.  “Can’t have something as improper as that in your car, I suppose,” Eames said.

“Then you stopped,” Arthur said.

“Of course.  I don’t know of anyone who snores whilst awake.”

Arthur frowned.  “No.  While you were sleeping.  You weren’t moving much.”

Eames blinked at Arthur.  The corners of his eyes were hard and sticky with sleep.

“Did you think I’d died?” Eames asked.

“This is our exit,” Arthur said abruptly.

“This is a highway?”

Arthur smiled slightly, his eyes still wrinkled in worry as they pulled off.  At first, Eames thought they were headed to nowhere.  They reached a tiny, two-street town.  Eames thought they would stop: he wasn’t wearing his watch, but he was sure that they’d been driving for hours.  The roads were becoming increasingly pitted and icy, and Eames was sure that Arthur had played this song already, but Arthur drove on.  The town disappeared, and the trees reasserted themselves.  Eames marveled at Arthur’s sense of direction; it looked to him like they were going in circles.

Finally, after turning onto an unpaved track and passing over several precariously iced-over areas, Arthur pulled up to house and killed the engine.  It had appeared so suddenly out of the dark that Eames at first didn’t notice it.

“Here?” Eames asked.  Arthur climbed out of the driver’s seat and slammed the door.  Eames could see him stretching lightly before he walked to the front porch and unlocked the door.  Eames felt bad for not offering to drive.

He got out of the car and pulled his duffel from the trunk.  The house was imposing.  It looked a combination of stone and heavy, dark wood.  Snow seemed to sit heavy on the roof, and Eames was reminded of how utterly inappropriately dressed for the weather he was.  Without the sound of the car or Arthur, the silence of the house and its surroundings was deep enough to swallow.  Eames couldn’t hear a single bird or a cricket or anything else to tell him that there was life nearby.

A brief thought struck him— _they’re already here_.

But Arthur called to him from inside, so Eames shouldered his bag and approached the house.  He mounted the few steps to the long, deep porch, which he crossed to open the front door.

The inside of the house didn’t match the exterior in the slightest, and Eames let out a shaky, relieved breath.

“Safe house?” Eames asked.

There was a _bang_ from the kitchen, and Arthur emerged holding a frying pan.  “Regular house,” Arthur said.  “It’s mine,” he added.

Eames didn’t need Arthur’s confirmation to know who the house belonged to.  If the scenery suggested Arthur, the interior screamed it.  All of the furniture had clean lines.  The floors and windows were spotless, as was everything else.  There were candles on coasters that Arthur lit as he moved around the first floor.  A variety of pillows with varying colors, designs, and fabrics were everywhere.  The places that Eames could see exuded warmth and comfort, but also a keen eye and a certain paranoia—from sheer level of detail alone, this space would be impossible for even the best architect to replicate in dreamshare.

“Are you hungry?” Arthur asked.  He’d gone back to the kitchen.  Eames passed through the living room—the space that he’d walked into from the front door, to follow him.  Arthur stood in front of a stocked pantry.  To his right, a refrigerator, propped open, was likewise full.

“Do you routinely keep houses in the middle of nowhere fully stocked for doomsday?” Eames asked lightly.  His remark earned him a scowl.  “Don’t mind me.  It never hurts to be prepared.”

Arthur made a noise.  “So, are you hungry, or,” he said, trailing off.

“Very,” Eames said.  “How can I help?”

“Sit,” Arthur ordered.

“What are you making?” Eames asked.  “I’d rather help.”

“No offense, but I’d rather you stay away from my knives as much as possible,” Arthur said.  “Do you eat eggs?”

“I eat everything,” Eames said.  “I thought you’d be above breakfast for dinner.”

Arthur glanced at a window.  “It’s a little late,” he said.  Eames reached for his watch but remembered for the second time that he wasn’t wearing it.  “I figured it was fast and easy.  We can rest up and plan our attack.”

Eames put up his hands.  Leave it to Arthur to have a sensible reason to eat an omelet at an unorthodox time.  “I’m hardly complaining,” Eames said.

“Good.  Do you want anything in yours, or are you going to be boring for once?”

* * *

Eames was learning many, many things about Arthur.  He knew how to make a joke—that had surprised Eames more than anything, and it shouldn’t have, not really.  No one could survive Mal while she was alive without being able to make and take jokes.  Arthur was a magnificent cook, but he professed an inaptitude with regard to meat that Eames didn’t believe for one millisecond.  In addition, though Eames had already known it, Arthur liked to be methodical with his food.  Eames had never seen ham sliced into such perfect cubes outside of pre-packaged goods before, and if he hadn’t seen Arthur dice it himself, he wouldn’t have believed it to be fresh.

Eames insisted on washing the plates and silverware after they ate.  “Believe it or not, my mother did teach me some manners,” Eames said.

“I believe it.”  Arthur frowned.  “I still need to make your bed up.”

Eames scrubbed at his plate.  “I’m fine with the couch.  Don’t trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble,” Arthur said.  “Just…”

“Just?”

Arthur was right behind him.  Eames hadn’t heard him walk across the floorboards, but there he was, warm and breathing behind Eames.  He was looking out the window again.

“Just don’t go outside,” Arthur murmured.  “Not until we have a plan.”

Eames turned sideways so that he could better see Arthur.  He had a serious expression, but Eames could read worry in his eyes.

“I won’t,” Eames promised.  “But, you know, if Fischer’s people do get here, a few walls and windows aren’t going to keep them out.”

Arthur’s mouth was a thin line.  Eames stared at him for as long as he could before he had to blink.

“I won’t go outside,” Eames repeated.

Arthur took a step back.  The tips of his ears had flushed, and Eames wondered if he’d only just realized how close they’d been.

“I’ll just,” Arthur said, gesturing toward the stairs.  Eames stifled a smile; Arthur was never at a loss for words unless he could help it.

“Go ahead,” Eames said, turning back to the sink.  “And thank you.”

Eames listened as Arthur went up.  The floorboards creaked until they didn’t.  The back of Eames’ neck prickled and he told himself that just because he couldn’t hear Arthur walking around upstairs didn’t mean he wasn’t there.  Of course he was there; Eames had heard him go up.  There was nowhere else for him to be.

Even so, Eames got that feeling again.  He felt eyes on him.  He swallowed once, scraping a fork against his sponge forcefully.  The soap smelled of citrus and bubbled easily.  He focused on the feel of it against his hands as he cleaned the plates, then redid them for good measure.  He dried each piece and checked cabinets and drawers until he found where they went.  Arthur didn’t come back downstairs.

“Arthur?” Eames called.  Arthur didn’t answer.  Eames tried to convince himself that this was reasonable, that Arthur was making a bed somewhere.  Eames hadn’t even set foot on the stairs, but as he peered up them, he found that he didn’t want to.  He wanted Arthur to come back down, where Eames already knew it was safe.

The thought hit him hard, and he walked to the couch and sat.  As he’d suspected, it was an incredibly comfortable couch.  Why was he afraid of the house? Eames was certainly afraid, there was no denying.  He was worried about Arthur here, worried about himself, too.  Eames strained his ears and still could only make out the hum of the refrigerator.

For lack of anything to do until Arthur returned from making the bed, Eames rifled through his duffel bag.  Toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, a few changes of clothes, another pair of shoes—and there it was.  Eames held up his watch and frowned.  At some point, it had stopped.  It was still set to New Delhi time, too.  There could be no resetting it until he figured out what time it was.

Eames stretched as the minutes did.  He walked back into the kitchen and leaned against the counter.  He was so tired.  He considered laying down on the couch, but if Arthur was going to the trouble to make up a bed, he didn’t want to be rude.  Eames sat back down at the kitchen table and hunched over.  He just wanted to go back to sleep.  His eyes drifted shut.

A dull _thump_ woke him soundly back up.  Eames looked around anxiously but could see no change on the first floor.  Arthur was still upstairs.  Eames was ready to settle back in when he glanced at the window.

Eames could freely admit that he screamed.  Loudly.  He couldn’t look away from what he saw.  It didn’t look away from him, either.  In truth, Eames wasn’t sure it _could_ see, but it appeared to be staring at him.  It had scared him, and it knew it.

It might have been funny had it not been so terrifying.  Eames thought he might be sick.

The thing outside might have been Yusuf, if Yusuf’s eyes had been gouged out with a serrated blade, if his lips had been sliced off in the same manner.  It might have been him if not for the cuts across its cheeks and neck, the blood matting its hair, and the bloodstained, dirt-encrusted fingers—fingers which were splayed across the window, smearing blood and filth on the outside of the glass.

Its breath fogged the glass.  Eames found he couldn’t move.

“Eames?”

“Arthur,” Eames choked.  He couldn’t look away from the window.

“Eames,” Arthur said.  Eames could hear the other man’s footsteps.

Eames turned to face Arthur.  Arthur was watching him, a concerned look on his face.

“I heard you yelling,” Arthur said.  “Are you all right?”

Eames gestured at the window.  Arthur looked, and Eames watched his eyes narrow.

“Come upstairs,” Arthur said.  His voice was hollow.

Eames scrambled away toward Arthur, who stood as if planted in the floorboards.  When Eames got the courage to look back at the window, the grotesque thing that had been standing outside was gone.  Eames saw for the first time that it was snowing.  The smears of blood against the glass were gone as if they’d never been there in the first place.

“What was that?” Eames asked.  His voice only cracked at the beginning, a feat which he considered remarkable.

“Come upstairs,” Arthur repeated.  There was a little more force to it now.

“ _What was that?”_ Eames asked again.

Arthur shook his head.  “I don’t know what you saw, but nothing that can get in here,” he said slowly.  “I promise.”  He reached for Eames.

Eames shoved Arthur back.  “No,” he said.  “No.  Whatever that is—was—it’s still out there.  Arthur, _it isn’t human_.  Didn’t you see it?”

Arthur glanced back at the window, visibly confused.  “Eames,” he started, then: “No.  But it can’t get in here.”

Eames felt himself starting to hyperventilate.  “Wonderful,” he muttered, “now I’m seeing things?  This is— This is—”

“Eames,” Arthur tried.  “Eames, breathe.  It’s just stress.  Happens all the time.”

“How do you know?”

“Do you think I’m lying?”

Eames considered the question.

“No,” he said.  “I don’t think you’d lie about something like this.”

“Come upstairs,” Arthur said.  “We both need to rest.”

Eames tried to level Arthur with a condescending glare, but Arthur returned it, and Eames was soundly beaten.

“Very well,” he said.  “Lead the way.”

Arthur nodded once, then gestured to the stairs.  “After you,” he said.  He glanced at that window one more time, and Eames thought he might strangle him.  He really hadn’t seen?

“Any surprises I should know about to avoid another panic attack?” Eames asked.  He tried to keep his tone light as he took one stair at a time, using the bannister to help pull himself up.

“I use lavender to scent the pillows,” Arthur said seriously.

The statement was so ridiculous and at such utter odds with what had just happened that Eames laughed.  Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Arthur directed him to a room facing the front of the house.

“This is your room,” Arthur said.  He slung Eames’ duffel bag toward him.  Eames didn’t remember Arthur grabbing it.  “Bathroom’s right across the hall.  I’m next to you.”  Arthur pointed at the adjacent door.

“What are those?” Eames asked, pointing at two other doors.  The were closed.

“Office,” Arthur said, pointing at one, “and storage.  Bedding, towels.”  Arthur stretched his arms.  “I drove all day, so I’m going to turn in.  Need anything?”

“No,” Eames said, a little too quickly.  Arthur was watching him with those eyes of his.  When Eames first met him, he thought that Arthur had X-ray vision or some such for how he scrutinized people.  “Just going to shower and turn in myself, if you don’t mind.”

Arthur waved a hand.  “Not at all.  Good night,” he said.

“Good night, Arthur.” Arthur slipped into his room.  In his own space, with lavender-scented pillows and clean sheets, he stripped and headed for the shower.  As Eames had expected, the bathroom was very well stocked.  Arthur kept an extensive collection of soaps, scrubs, and washes of various kinds and scents.  Eames had to laugh to see them.  Who could use all of these in one lifetime?  He didn’t think it possible.

The shower ran very hot, and Eames washed quickly.  The mirror fogged with steam and the tiles grew slick with water.  The water sluiced away his stress and tension.  By the time Eames was finished, the air was heavy and thick and he felt rejuvenated.

Eames dried himself off and returned to his room.  The bed was comfortable, he’d brought his favorite pajamas, and he was bone-tired.  Stress-related hallucinations were a new one for him, and they’d left him beat.  In all, Eames thought that sleep couldn’t be too far away.

It was much further than he’d hoped.  Eames rolled in bed, switching from one side to the other, unable to settle down.  His mind had picked that moment, of all times, to remember watching Fischer give his press conference on the fate of Fischer Morrow.  It stuck him as odd, lying in bed: Fischer had discovered what had happened, but he still hadn’t gone back on his promise to dissolve the conglomerate.  Perhaps the inception ran deep enough that even the discovery of its creation couldn’t shake its effects.  The thought was more chilling to Eames than comforting.

He wondered, too, what had happened to Yusuf’s “patients”.  They’d all but lived in that basement, hooked up to a PASIV and a steady supply of Somnacin, pain meds, sedatives, and a cocktail of other chemicals.  Eames hadn’t thought to check the basement for survivors or stragglers, and he wished he could have continued to forget about them.  Much as Eames had liked Yusuf, those people down there, rotting on stretchers, had always turned his stomach.  To think of them actually rotting, no longer being cared for in any capacity, was enough to make him consider sitting on the floor of Arthur’s bathroom.

Eames forced his thoughts to Arthur.  In the past, he’d forced his thoughts _away_ from Arthur for the sake of sanity.  Arthur, with his beautiful suits and his beautiful body and his beautiful face.  Too beautiful, Eames thought.  He was made for sin, and Eames had sinned many, many times thinking of him.  Arthur, one of the few Eames had tried and failed on several occasions to charm into his bed.  Arthur, the indomitable.

Arthur, in love with a girl who was probably dead.

Eames shook his head, smelling the rush of lavender as his hair rubbed into the pillow.  Eames didn’t need Arthur’s love.  He needed what he had—a safe house when required, assistance when prompted, and a few impromptu smiles.  Eames thought of how Arthur had smiled at him in the car over jazz.  He’d keep that smile, he thought, along with all of the others he’d seen throughout the day.

In a last attempt to fall asleep, Eames tried counting sheep.  It was a silly tactic, but it was one that had worked for him in the past.  He pictured a quaint field with white flowers and a blue sky and a black picket fence in the middle.  One by one, the sheep—numbered, of course—jumped over.  He made it to all of six before the vision jerked out of his control.  The sheep wouldn’t jump, couldn’t make it over the fence.  Their movements became jerky and awkward, like bad stop-motion animation.  Eames couldn’t even hold a children’s book image in his mind.

With a groan, he sat up and rubbed his eyes.  He hunted for a clock on the bedside table, anything to tell him what time it was, but there was nothing.

Eames sat up.  He stretched, then he swung his legs over the side of the bed.  The floorboards might as well have been coated with ice, they were so cold under his feet.  Eames took in a sharp breath as he adjusted.  He’d only just gotten warm, too.

He walked as quietly as he could to the door.  He didn’t want to disturb Arthur—Eames expected he was a light sleeper outside of dreamshare, and he didn’t want to wake him at whatever unholy hour it was—but he also couldn’t just lay in the dark waiting for sleep to come.

In the hall, Eames noted that Arthur’s door was ajar.  Eames had never considered himself the most polite nor the most principled of people, so he didn’t think twice about looking in.  The door was wide enough open that Eames didn’t have to do anything but peer through the darkness to get a good look of the room.

It looked much the same as the room Eames had been given.  Everything was mirrored, from the position of the bed and the nightstand to the window overlooking the backyard of the house.

Just like Eames’ room lacked an Eames, Arthur’s room was devoid of Arthur.

Eames frowned.  He hadn’t heard Arthur get up.  He must have decided against turning in while Eames was in the shower.

There were no lights on upstairs, nor could he see any reflected light from downstairs on the stairwell.  He strained his ears, much as he had earlier in the night, and found nothing.

No, not nothing.  He heard a tinkling of music.  Was Arthur listening to the radio downstairs?

Eames didn’t want to scare Arthur, who most certainly thought he was asleep, so he didn’t bother being quiet on the stairs.  He hummed softly if tunelessly to himself as he came to the bottom of the stairs.

To say that he regretted every decision he’d ever made in his life would have been to exaggerate, but Eames wasn’t in the mood for realism, not with what he was staring down now.

There was Arthur, standing at the front door.  The door was open.  Arthur was holding something—some _one_.

Holding, Eames realized after a moment, wasn’t quite the correct term.  Arthur was doing his best to sever someone’s head from the rest of their body.

Eames wasn’t sure if he made a noise, or if Arthur noticed him some other way.  No matter the cause, Arthur abruptly stood and turned to Eames.  The front of his shirt was bloody, as were his hands.  He’d let the thing—Eames resolutely did not look at it—fall to the floor in front of him.

“Eames,” Arthur breathed.

“Arthur,” Eames said.  He took a step back, his ankle hitting the first of the stairs.  “What— What are you doing?”  He kept his voice from cracking.

Eames heard a low moan.  He realized with a sick pooling in his stomach that it was coming from the thing on the floor.  Instinctually, he moved toward it, but Arthur raised a hand.

“Stay where you are,” Arthur ordered.  Whatever hesitancy he’d had upon first seeing Eames had dissipated.

“What are you doing?” Eames asked again.  “Arthur, what’s going on?”

“I thought you were sleeping,” Arthur said.  He sounded broken again, then, “Go back upstairs.”

Eames wanted to tell him to pick a tone and stick with it, but another low moan reached his ears.  Eames realized that it was coming from outside.

“Arthur,” Eames said.  He wished he knew what was going on or what to say.  

Except, he did.  It was obvious, now that he’d realized.  _This was a dream_.

Eames reached into the pocket of his pants, where he’d stashed his totem, the poker chip he’d stolen from a casino in Montenegro and had later modified.  Its ridges were perfect until they weren’t in the places where Eames had added more, using a pocket knife to carve squiggles and circles that he’d filled with a zinc alloy he’d gotten from Yusuf before painting it over with a new coat of red.  He could feel those ridges, those lines that he’d added, and he could feel the heft of it.

This wasn’t a dream.  This was reality.

 _This was reality_.

The partially-decapitated thing on the ground at Arthur’s feet suddenly sprung up.  Arthur jerked after it, but it was going after Eames with a bloodcurdling scream.  It crashed into him, and he fell backwards, his back hitting the stairs hard.

Bloody, dirt-crusted fingers clawed at his skin, at his neck, at his hair.  A curtain of greasy, clumped hair fell in his face, even as Arthur tried to drag the thing off of him.  Eames hit it in the stomach and sent it reeling.

The thing snarled at Eames as Arthur took a defensive stance in front of him.  It still had eyes, though lips were missing.

“Ariadne?” Eames asked.

Arthur was on her—it—in the time it took to say her name.

“He stays,” Arthur said.  He beat on it mercilessly with his bare hands. “ _He stays._ ”  Eames remained where he’d fallen, breathing heavily.  _This was reality_.

“He’s not leaving.” Arthur dragged the shrieking shade of Ariadne to the door.  Outside, Eames could see other figures—mere silhouettes in the darkness, but he could guess who was who in the few seconds he had to see.

“Arthur, stop this,” Eames said, but Arthur had thrown the woman out the door and slammed it shut.  He stood, breathing heavily against it, without looking at Eames.  Something hit the door, hard, and Arthur jerked once, then everything was still.

Eames thought he might cry.

“What did you do?” Eames asked.  The question made no sense, but nothing else did, either.

“You’re here,” Arthur said.  “You’re safe.”

“No,” Eames said.  He forced himself to stand.  His legs felt like they’d been replaced with pudding.  “This— No, this isn’t—”

“It’s all right,” Arthur said.  He _smiled_.  “It is.  There’s nothing to worry about.”

Eames ran up the stairs.  He heard Arthur crashing after him, the split second delay giving him enough time to hide in a room—Arthur’s room, Eames realized belatedly—and lock the door.

Arthur beat against the wood with his fists.

“Open the door,” he shouted through it.

“Not until you tell me what the bloody hell is going on, I won’t,” Eames shouted back.  He scanned the room for something, anything, he could use.  He wasn’t sure what he was looking for until he saw the window.

As if sensing what Eames was thinking, Arthur’s onslaught on the door intensified.

“Eames,” he called.  “Eames, come out here.”

Eames unlatched the window.  “This isn’t reality,” he called back.  “And you’re not real.”  He leaned out and immediately ducked back inside.

Arthur was standing below the window with a shotgun.

“Open the door!” Arthur called, more urgently.  Eames looked between the window and the door as he moved to the middle of the room.  There were two Arthurs.  Eames slapped himself once and felt for his totem again.  It still felt right, but this was unmistakably not reality.  It couldn’t be.

Carefully, Eames moved to the window once more.  He ignored the calls that came from the other side of the door in favor of leaning out.

The Arthur with a shotgun was watching him.  He moved slowly, giving Eames plenty of time to react as he took aim.  There was movement down below—the corpses, Eames realized distantly.  They were gathering again, watching him.

The shot rang out around the time the door finally gave way.

* * *

Eames opened his eyes.  The first class flight attendant, a tiny woman with dyed blonde hair, stood beside him.  He twisted to look at the cabin.  Fischer was still out, but the rest of the team was stretching as they woke back up.  Everyone except—

“Sir?” the first class flight attendant asked again.  She’d caught Eames staring.  “Are you all right?”

“Quite,” Eames lied.  He looked at Arthur, who was pulling the needle out of his arm.  Yusuf lumbered to the bathroom.  Eames’ gaze fell to Cobb.  “Check him, would you?”

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asked.  Eames flinched at his voice, and he knew Arthur—the real Arthur—was too sharp not to notice.

It had to be the real Arthur.  Eames wasn’t prepared to face the consequences if it wasn’t.

“Check him,” Eames repeated.  “He hasn’t woken up.”

Ariadne was already at Cobb’s side, shaking then slapping him.  The flight attendant and Arthur quickly joined her.  Saito had twisted to watch them.

“He came to find me down there,” Saito said.  “To return to reality.”

“And after that?” Eames asked.  Saito did not answer.

Arthur’s skin was white, and the flight attendant swayed violently.  Eames already knew.  He got up and started collecting up the PASIV.  Ariadne broke away from the huddle around Cobb to help him.

“He’s not breathing,” Ariadne said.  Her voice was quiet and steady.  “What do we do?”

“We need to clean up fast,” Eames said, “before he wakes up.”  He gestured at Fischer.  Yusuf walked back into the cabin.  “How long do we have before Fischer wakes up?”

“A couple of minutes,” Yusuf said.

“How many, exactly?” Eames snapped.  He couldn’t look Yusuf or Ariadne in the eye.

“Four,” Yusuf said, checking his watch.

“Help them with Cobb,” Eames said, gesturing to Arthur and the flight attendant.  “We need to get him out of here.  When Fischer wakes up, we’re strangers.  We fell asleep, and the flight attendant,” Eames caught her eye, “found Cobb dead.”

“Are you serious?  No,” Arthur said, “don’t we have defibrillator paddles?”

“It won’t help,” Eames said.  “He’s dead.”

“We can restart his heart.”

Eames snapped the two front latches of the PASIV shut.  “It won’t help,” Eames reiterated.  “He’s gone.  Probably has been for a while.  Even if you bring his body back, his mind is lost.”

“But—”

Ariadne stood and laid a hand on Arthur’s arm.  Eames jumped to his feet.  He managed to catch himself before he yanked Ariadne’s hand away.  This Arthur wasn’t going to hurt her.  He wasn’t going to hurt any of them.

“What’s gotten into you?” Arthur asked.

Eames sighed and licked his lips.  “Fischer wakes up in three.  We need to move.”

* * *

The flight attendant and Arthur spent the next three minutes trying to restart Cobb’s heart.  Despite Eames’ insistence, Arthur refused to go along with the plan.  Ariadne watched, arms folded, off to one side.  She looked suitably horrified.  Saito made a call, and Eames had never been angrier that he didn’t speak Mandarin.  Eames and Yusuf stashed the PASIV where it had been at the start of the flight.

“What happened?” Yusuf asked.

“He didn’t come back up,” Eames said.  “It was a risk.  Not one either you or he happened to mention, but—”

Yusuf put his hands up.  “You can’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same.”

Eames slammed his hand into the wall of the plane.  “You can’t tell me I wouldn’t have,” he said, “because I would have.”  Yusuf’s mouth was a thin line on his face.

“Be that as it may,” Yusuf said, “people who get caught in the dream world don’t die in this one.”

Eames exhaled.  “Something went wrong,” he said.

“What sort of something?” Yusuf asked.

But the three minutes were up, and Fischer would be stirring any second now.  Eames slipped back into his seat and set his head in his hands.

Fischer came up quickly.  Eames heard him shifting in his seat.  The commotion near the back of the section with Cobb soon attracted his attention.  Eames saw Fischer catch Saito’s eye.

“Mr. Saito?” Fischer asked.

“Mr. Fischer,” Saito said, inclining his head.  “It is an honor.”

Fischer sounded at a loss for words.  “I didn’t know you were here,” he said.  “I apologize if I’ve caused you any—”

Eames saw Saito put up a hand.  “It is I who have cause to apologize,” he said.  “Your father was a good man.”

Fischer made a sound that bordered on disbelief.  “Thank you,” he said finally.  “He had his moments.”  After another few beats of silence, he said, “What’s going on back there?”

He made to stand, but Saito shook his head.  It was remarkable, Eames thought, just how much control Saito had over the young man.

“You slept most of the flight,” Saito said, “as have I.  One of our companions has passed during that time.”

Fischer made a strangled sound.  “Oh,” he said finally.  Eames smiled wryly to himself.  Fischer’s eloquence truly left much to be desired.  “Is there anything that can be done?”

Eames could hear Arthur and the flight attendant working to restart Cobb’s heart even then.  Someone—Eames thought it was probably Ariadne, but he couldn’t be sure without twisting to look—returned to their seat.

“This world gives and it takes without warning,” Saito said, turning to look out the window, “often before we are ready.  It rarely does so at opportune times.”

Fischer made no response.  Eames thought that he had a lot on his mind to reconcile, as did he himself.

* * *

The plane landed.  Police were waiting in the airport to take statements.  Fischer and Saito were waived through—evidently one of Saito’s calls was to make sure that he wasn’t stopped by the authorities—but Eames and the rest of the first class section weren’t so lucky.

Arthur and the first class flight attendant were questioned first.  The four officers present had instructed Eames, Ariadne, and Yusuf not to speak to each other or leave before the questioning was complete.

Naturally, the moment the officers were out of earshot, Yusuf leaned over to Eames.

“What’s the story?” Yusuf asked.  From her place on Eames’ other side, Ariadne moved closer to better hear.

“Same as we discussed,” Eames said, nodding once at the both of them.  He still couldn’t look either one in the eye.  “We don’t know each other and were asleep.  Ariadne, you woke up to find the flight attendant and Arthur trying to help Cobb.  You didn’t know either one of them.”

“And you two?” Ariadne asked.

“Slept like a baby until the plane landed,” Yusuf said.  “I knocked myself out with sleeping pills.”

“And I was far enough from the commotion not to wake up myself,” Eames said.

“Will they buy it?” Ariadne worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

“The only ones who could refute us are Arthur and the flight attendant,” Eames said.  “And Saito, but he has too much to lose, and he’s not here anyway.  We’ll be out of here in a few hours.”

Yusuf leaned back, apparently satisfied.  Ariadne, though, wasn’t finished.

“Eames?” she asked.  “Is it… What happened?”

“Something went wrong,” Eames said.

“But what?” Ariadne persisted.  “Was it because it was so deep, or…?”

Eames ran a hand through his hair.  It was flat on one side from laying for so long.  “I don’t know,” he admitted.  After a moment, he asked, “After the last kick, did you have another dream?”

Ariadne became very still beside him.  “Yes,” she said quietly.

Eames swallowed once.  “Did you happen to try your totem during that dream?”  Ariadne’s continued stillness answered the question for him.

“I was home,” Ariadne said.  “I was with my family, my friends, going to classes… It took me a while to realize something was off,” she admitted.  “Days.  Maybe weeks.  I was sleeping and eating and functioning until I wasn’t.”

“Residuals,” Eames said.  “I had one, too.”

“Is that why you visibly flinch when Arthur comes close to you?” Ariadne asked.  Eames didn’t think he needed to answer for her to know.

The two of the officers emerged from the first of the holding rooms along with the first class flight attendant.  Arthur and the other two remained in the second room.

“Ariadne Grant?” one of the officers called.

Ariadne stood.

“Oh, and darling,” Eames said, putting on his best flirtatious voice.  He knew it was going against the plan, but he needed to speak to Ariadne when he was released.  “There’s a delightful place on Melrose Avenue.  Coffee after we get out?”

Eames thanked any deity who was listening that Ariadne was quick on the uptake.  “I’ll be waiting,” she said.  Her best romantic voice sounded ridiculous, as was the little eyelash bat she threw at him, but the officers were both blushing like schoolboys at what must have looked like a whirlwind romance while waiting for interrogation.  Ariadne winked once as she was led into the holding room.

Yusuf let out a sigh once the officers shut the door.  “Smooth,” he said.

“You’re one to talk,” Eames grumbled.  “I’m not the one who had too much pre-flight champagne.”

Yusuf laughed at that.  “It’s not every day in Mombasa that good quality champagne comes rolling past every few minutes,” he said.  “I’d think you would understand.”

Eames had to smile.  “I suppose I would.  I could certainly go for a drink now.”

Beside him, Yusuf sobered.  “Do you really think you had a residual?”

“I know it,” Eames said.  “I think Ariadne did, too.  Did you?”

Yusuf shook his head.  “I was one of the last up, though,” he said.  “Maybe it was a timing issue.”

“Maybe,” Eames said.  He was watching the door that Arthur had disappeared behind quite some time ago.  Eames couldn’t hear anything from inside, and the knowledge that the rooms were soundproofed did little to reassure him that everything was going all right.

“Glaring at the door isn’t going to make it open any sooner,” Yusuf said.  “Waiting to give him an earful?”

“Not exactly,” Eames said, shifting in his seat.

Eames could tell without looking that Yusuf was observing him carefully.

“You look nervous,” Yusuf said.

“Well,” Eames started.

“You don’t do nervous,” Yusuf continued.  Eames frowned.  “You’re really worried about the residual, aren’t you?  You probably just had a regular dream.  It does happen from time to time.”

Eames shifted in his seat.  “Of course,” he said tonelessly.  Two officers and Ariadne emerged from the holding room.  “It happens.”

Ariadne nodded once at Eames as they called him in, leaving Yusuf waiting in the hallway, alone.  He assumed it meant that she’d meet him at the café he’d mentioned—he hadn’t given a name, but she couldn’t be that hard to locate once he got there.  Eames obediently smiled at both of the officers and followed them.  One shut the door to the holding room behind him while the other went to sit at one end of a narrow table.  Eames took the only other available seat.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” the officer sitting across from him said.

Eames gave his best smile.  “Do I have a choice in the matter?”

The officer remained stoic, and Eames could hear the one still standing at the door shift his weight.  He let his smile drop slightly and braced himself.

* * *

The questions were easy for a consummate liar.

Eames could lie as easily as he breathed.  No, he’d never met Cobb in his life.  Yes, the other passengers were just as much an enigma.  Oh, so that was Robert Fischer?  Eames professed he didn’t watch the news often enough, but he’d heard talk.  If he’d known, he might have offered condolences.

Eames was in and out in about twenty minutes.  He made a mental note to thank Saito if he ever saw him again; the officers hadn’t mentioned Eames’ extensive criminal record, and Eames had no doubt that Saito was responsible.

Eames left the officers a number to a burner he’d gotten for the operation and went on his merry way.  Yusuf was waiting in the hall when he left, and the officers Eames had spoken to promptly ushered him inside.

When the door closed, Eames walked quietly to the first holding room.  The door was ajar, and the lights were off.  In the time it had taken for Eames’ questioning, Arthur had been released.  Eames wondered what had taken so long.  Did the American authorities really not believe that a man who’d come across a dead body would try to do something about it?  Or had Arthur gone and shot his mouth off?

Eames shoved his hands in his pockets and opted not to think about it.  He picked up his bag from a TSA agent who’d been instructed to hold all of the baggage from the first-class section until questioning was complete.  With his suitcase in hand, Eames left the airport and called for a taxi.

Los Angeles was busier than Eames remembered.  The highways were enormous, and drivers wove in and out of traffic.  It reminded Eames of Egypt.  He’d been once, when he was on the younger side, and he remembered watching the road at night from a hotel room.  He saw no discernible laws and quite a few accidents.  Los Angeles was no different.

Eames checked into the Omni at California Plaza.  He dropped his bags in his room and promptly called another cab to take him to Melrose Avenue.  He checked his watch—his functioning, correctly-set watch.  It was just after eleven o’clock in the morning, local time.

Ariadne was, of course, not at the café he’d had in mind.  Eames texted her the actual address, and she arrived ten minutes later with her slim suitcase, her hair sticking up at odd angles and sweat pouring down her face.

“Rough time?” Eames asked, gesturing for her to sit across from him.  He’d snagged one of the booths near the register at the back of the café.

Ariadne sat with a huff, pulling her bag to rest beside her.  “Well,” she said, inclining her head, “you didn’t exactly give me a lot to go on.  At least I’ve broken in my shoes.”

Eames laughed.  “Well, that’s good news.  Even better, Saito’s checks cleared.  I imagine you’re drowning in debt, though, so brunch is on me.”

“Why would I be in debt, Mr. Eames?” Ariadne asked, teasing his name.

Eames smiled.  “You’re a student of architecture at a prestigious and ridiculously expensive university.”

“How do you know my parents aren’t paying my way?”

Eames looked at the table and his smile dimmed.  “I’m not sure you want me to answer that question, love.”

Ariadne made a small sound that sounded like a laugh.  “No, I guess I don’t.”  She sighed mightily.  “But, if you’re paying, I would like to know what’s good here.  I’ve never been to Los Angeles before.”

“You haven’t lived until you’ve had their crunchy French toast,” Eames said, pointing at the menu.  “Or, if you’re more traditional, any of version of eggs Benedict.”

Ariadne ordered a French press coffee and the French toast, while Eames got himself green tea and the house version of eggs Benedict.  Ariadne hadn’t been able to decide between the two dishes, and on his honor as a gentleman, Eames had promised to share.

“Green tea?” Ariadne asked when they were alone once more.

“It’s a habit,” Eames explained.  “Believe it or not, I’ve quite a few of those.  I like to drink tea when I finish a job.”

Ariadne shrugged.  “Sounds cool to me.  Maybe French toast will be my splurge, huh?”

“Are you planning on continuing in this line of work, then?” Eames asked.

Ariadne shook her head.  “No,” she admitted, “I’m not.  But it’s fun to imagine.”

“We’ll be sorry to lose you,” Eames said.  He meant it.  “You’re quite good.”

Ariadne blushed.  “Well,” she said, “I don’t know about that.  Losing that endless creativity will be hard, but seeing what it’s done, what it can do…”  She took a deep breath as the server returned with coffee and tea.  “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.”

Eames nodded.  “You do learn fast,” he murmured, stirring his tea.  “You knew about Mal going in, didn’t you?”

Ariadne squirmed in her seat.  “I didn’t know it was that bad,” she admitted.  “When I went down with Cobb at the beginning, she was there.  I assumed it was because I’d made a mistake.”

“What had you done?” Eames asked.

“I’d recreated places from reality,” Ariadne said.  “Places he knew and remembered, that I knew from wandering the city.  I thought that had triggered her appearance.”

“But you thought that it might have been something worse,” Eames pressed.  “That’s why you insisted on coming down with us.”

“Yes,” Ariadne admitted.  “I thought something was wrong.  He wasn’t surprised to see her, so…”  She waved a hand.  “I’m sorry.  I wanted him to tell Arthur, or anyone, but he wouldn’t and I didn’t push hard enough.”

Eames sat back against the booth.  “No one could convince him to do anything he didn’t want,” he said, “not even Arthur, and Arthur has known him for longer than any of us combined.  Cobb couldn’t be pushed.”

“Did you know him well?” Ariadne asked.

“No,” Eames said.  “I knew of him, mostly through Miles.”

Ariadne’s head shot up.  “You know him?”

Eames nodded once.  “Oh yes.  Your professor, isn’t he?”

“My advisor and professor both,” Ariadne said.  “How do you know him?”

“Just about anyone in the dreamshare business these days knows Miles,” Eames said.  “He did most of the pioneering legwork, you see.  How much did Cobb tell you?”

Ariadne shook her head.  “Not nearly enough, I don’t think,” she said.

Eames grinned.  Their server arrived with food.  “Let’s talk about it then, shall we?” he asked, putting on a faux-romantic tone.  Ariadne giggled at his voice as the server scurried away.

“Project Somnacin,” Eames said around an enormous bite of egg.  Ariadne quickly stole one for herself, and Eames retaliated by stealing a piece of her French toast.  “It started there, about thirty years ago.”

“Thirty years?” Ariadne asked, cutting her food into pieces.  “Why isn’t this stuff everywhere?”

“You’ve seen for yourself the dangers,” Eames said, “but mostly, it was tied up in military use.”

Ariadne took a deep drink of her coffee.  “I think I remember Arthur mentioning something about that.  It was designed by the military, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.  The United States military, to be precise,” Eames said.  “They were investigating the manipulation of dreams with the hopes of militarizing it.  Initial plans involved hooking enemy commanders up to PASIV machines with the end goal of driving them insane with their own thoughts.”

Around her French toast, Ariadne said, “But it didn’t work.”

“No.  The head of the project, Captain Darrel Bartel, conducted initial tests on death-row inmates.  The files claim that they were volunteers, but…” Eames clicked his tongue and took another bite of his food.  “The United States government isn’t exactly known for its transparency of operations.

“The inmates were fine, of course.  They were all hooked up to one PASIV.”

“So they just shared a dream,” Ariadne said.

Eames nodded briefly.  “It took a few trials to determine that, though.  You remember your first dreamshare—they weren’t initially aware that they were in a dream.”

Ariadne’s face flushed, and she promptly turned to her breakfast.

“Once they figured out what was happening,” Eames continued, spearing a piece of toast, “Captain Bartel changed tactics.  Rather than using dreamshare for offensive use, he decided to make it a training tool.  After all, you can’t die in dreams.”  Ariadne smiled tightly.  “That’s when Miles was brought in.”

“Why Miles?” Ariadne asked.

“At the time,” Eames said, taking a sip of his tea, “Miles was a military contractor.  Designed air force bases and the like.  He and Bartel were close friends.”

Ariadne’s eyes widened.  “A military contractor?  He’s a pacifist!”

Eames shrugged.  “You don’t have to be a hardened soldier to support advanced military tactics.  With the revelation of dreamshare, Bartel thought Project Somnacin could revolutionize warfare and drastically reduce casualties.  Soldiers, of course—he had no intention of training civilians.

“Miles was brought on as an architect.  He built the dreams that the soldiers—no more inmates, not with this new potential—would fight in.  I saw some of the plans in the files.  Some of them were flat fields, like old-school trenches and battlegrounds, but many of the dreamspaces were designed as military bases, hotels, even entire cities.  All to train a few select soldiers how better to kill and survive.

“Miles, though— You know Miles.  He’s an artist, a dreamer,” Eames smiled at his own joke.  “He’s not the military sort, like you said.  He began experimenting with the PASIV.  He worked with the chemists Bartel had on board to create different formulas.  With their help, he built the first dream-within-a-dream sequence.  He contacted a few notable psychiatrists afterwards; he was convinced that if he built enough levels, he could get to the essence of a person, their spirit, if you will.”  Eames folded his arms.  “Of course, we know now that all that’s down there is limbo, but it was the possibility that intrigued Miles.  What if there was definitive proof of a soul?”

Ariadne pursed her lips.  “How do you know all of this?”

“I may be a forger, but my fingers are good for more than penmanship,” Eames said.  “I may have pinched a file or five.  The rest I got out of Miles himself.  May I go on?”

Ariadne nodded vigorously.

“Bartel wasn’t too pleased about Miles’ activities,” Eames continued.  “Chemicals for the PASIV were initially difficult and expensive to synthesize, and Miles was being rather liberal with all of them.  Bartel sent off the psychiatrists and fired Miles.  That would have been the end of it, but when Miles packed his bags, he took a few extra things with him.  We have that in common, at least,” Eames said, wiping up his plate with one last bit of toast.  As he’d spoken, Ariadne had all but finished hers as well.

“He went to Britain first.  The SIS were very interested in PASIV technology.  They helped him recreate it—the PASIV itself and the chemicals.  They initially turned a blind eye to his citizenship, but when the United States figured out where he’d gone, they turned him out.  Miles went to Paris and has remained there ever since.”

“No one came after him there?” Ariadne asked.

Eames shrugged.  “Of course they did.  He just had allies by then, is all.  See, in the United States and later in Britain, he continued his research.  He tested himself, of course, but any volunteers were welcome indeed, and you already know the heady effects of the first few dreamshares.”  Eames drank the dregs of his tea.

“So his students,” Ariadne said, testing the word, “hid him away?”

“Right you are,” Eames said.  “He had a devoted following from the beginning.  Miles was the source of all credible information about dreamshare and how to get started.  He still is, really.  The United States has a lock on Project Somnacin, last I heard, and the SIS’ official stance is that the good professor never set foot on their shores.”

Eames fell silent as he watched Ariadne drink her coffee.

“You mentioned ‘residuals’ when we were waiting,” Ariadne said softly.  “Does Miles know about them?”

“Of course,” Eames said.  “But you don’t need to go to Miles to get information—unless, of course, you don’t trust me as a credible source.”

Ariadne laughed.  “Is a forger ever credible?”

“Only if the handwriting’s good,” Eames said.

“You’re despicable.”  Ariadne’s words lacked any real heat or bite.

“Residuals,” he said.  “They’re quite odd, actually.  Miles doesn’t know why they occur.  There are very few cases of them, all told.  You and I might be enough to push the total number into the double digits.”  Ariadne made an incredulous face.  “Really now.  Of the few we’ve got to work with, some have been for long shares, others for just a few minutes.  Unfortunately for us, all of the residuals I know about come from before the advent of the totem.”

“Mal came up with totems,” Ariadne said.  “There hasn’t been a residual since then?”

“Not that I know of,” Eames said.  “I’m inclined to believe it.  After all, we’ve just discovered that totems don’t work in a residual.”

Ariadne fiddled with her pocket.  “I thought it was reality,” she said.  “I really believed it.”

“I did too, in spite of what I was seeing.”  Eames finally set his empty cup down and flagged over the waiter.  “I am curious, now that I think about it, if Mal ever had one.”

“You think it might have contributed to her,” Ariadne struggled, “condition?”

“You’re looking for a way to exonerate Cobb.”

Ariadne put up her hands.  “I know what he did,” she said, “he showed me.  Or—I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see.  Doesn’t matter.  But if she thought she was in a residual—”

“The thing about residuals,” Eames said, “is that they’re individual.  That’s what makes them so odd.  Load of people hooked up to a PASIV, and after the shared dream, a few, perhaps even just one, have a separate dream.  Your projections, the things you build in your mind, they’re there, but so are all of the trappings of a regular dream.  It’s a mix between the two, chemical and natural.”

“You’re saying that, if Mal thought she was in a residual, she wouldn’t have felt the need to try to take Cobb with her,” Ariadne said, “because he would have been a projection.  Residuals aren’t shared.”

Eames grinned.  “Right you are.”

Ariadne slumped in her seat.  Eames took the moment to pay the check.

“Thanks for breakfast,” Ariadne said.

“Any time.  Do you have a place to stay?” Eames asked.

Ariadne shook her head.  “I was planning on camping out in the airport until I can fly back.”

“Come on, then,” Eames said.  “I know of a lovely hotel.”

“Shouldn’t we split up?” Ariadne asked.  “Less chance of someone following us?”

Eames looked around the café.  “Darling, we’ve been talking pretty loudly about dreamshare and the rest.  If someone were following us, we’d have led them straight to our doorstep already.”

* * *

Eames took Ariadne back to the Omni.  He surveyed the lobby from his position next to Ariadne as she booked her own room.

“Thanks so much,” Ariadne gushed to the concierge.

“My pleasure,” the concierge said brightly.  Eames could hear the falseness dripping through her words.  “Enjoy your stay.”

Ariadne pulled Eames closer to her.  “Good?” he asked.

“Good.  Now show me how to get upstairs,” Ariadne said with a grin.

Eames shook his head.  “Kids,” he mumbled.  He led Ariadne to the elevators and waited.

“What do you see?” Ariadne asked, tapping away at her mobile.

Eames shook his head.  “Nothing,” he answered.

“I didn’t ask if you saw anything interesting,” Ariadne said as the elevator arrived.  The doors slid open, and Ariadne tugged him inside.  “I asked you, what do you see?”

Eames slid his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms across his chest.

“You’re trying to figure out if this is another residual, aren’t you,” Ariadne pressed.  Eames frowned and hung his head.  “You really think I’m a projection?”

“No,” Eames answered, a little too quickly.  He amended, “I haven’t had time to build a complex projection of you, and I’d like to think that I’d know if I were speaking to anything less.”

Ariadne spun away from him to face him.  “You build projections of people?” she asked.  “How?  I thought projections were just involuntary associations and people your mind knows to be important.”

“For the most part, yes,” Eames said.  The elevator came to a stop on Ariadne’s floor, and they exited.  “With a little effort, though, you can build your own.  It’s how I make my forges.”

Eames explained his mental boxes while Ariadne found her room and began to unpack her few belongings.

“So, you could technically have the same person in your mind twice,” Ariadne said.  “Once as a straight projection, once as something you made?”  Eames nodded, and Ariadne’s hands stilled.  “Do you think,” she started, then stopped abruptly.

“Do I think what?” Eames asked.

Ariadne’s shoulders sunk.  “Do you think Cobb had two Mals?”

“I’m not sure,” Eames admitted.  “I only worked a couple of jobs with Cobb before now, and I never saw him so much as try to forge.”

Ariadne bobbed her head slowly.  She was about to ask another question when someone knocked at the door.

Eames regretted everything all at once.  He’d left his sidearm—carefully overlooked on the flight, thanks to Saito, Eames was sure—upstairs in his room.  He’d stayed with Ariadne when he knew it was smarter to split off and go their own ways.  He’d played the fool.

“Should I?” Ariadne asked, gesturing at the door.  Eames nodded vigorously and tried to relax into the chair he’d chosen for himself.  He’d made his bed, might as well lay in it.

The door opened to reveal Arthur.

“Hey,” he said.  His eyes panned across the room to settle on Eames, and he quirked one eyebrow.  “Good to see you.  Yusuf told me I had just missed you when I got out.  May I come in?”  Ariadne held the door open a little further so that he could come inside.

“You were in there an awfully long time,” Eames drawled.  His eyes darted involuntarily to Ariadne.  Why was Arthur here?  “Everything all right?”

“Sure,” Arthur said.  He moved to stand at the window and looked up.  “They just wanted to be thorough.”  Eames made a noise, but Arthur didn’t elaborate.  When he’d cleared the windows, Arthur made to sit in the chair next to Eames’.

“I texted Arthur on the way here,” Ariadne said all at once.  “I hope that’s all right.  You said he was involved, and it—it’s just—this sounded serious, and last time, with Cobb—”

“Of course,” Eames said, keeping the tightness out of his voice.  “Always better to have more neurons than less.”  He turned to Arthur and swallowed.  He’d managed to look Ariadne in the eye, but he still couldn’t so much look at Arthur’s shoes.

“Mind telling me what’s going on?” Arthur asked, mild as ever.

Eames forced himself to watch Arthur while Ariadne explained how they’d spent their morning.  Arthur had a distinctive way of taking up space.  He liked to have rather a lot of it, and his sprawl might have been obscene in any other company.  Eames, for his part, could feel himself shrinking in his seat involuntarily with every other word out of Ariadne’s mouth.

“Residuals,” Arthur said.  “That’s no good.”

“No,” Eames said unnecessarily.  “It’s not.”

“Did Yusuf have one?  Saito?”

“Yusuf claims he didn’t, but he claims plenty of things.  Didn’t get a chance to ask Saito.”

“Did you have one?” Ariadne asked.  “A residual.”

“No,” Arthur said.  “I didn’t.”

An odd silence fell over the room.  Eames felt the need to get up and do something, Arthur was twiddling his fingers, and Ariadne looked ready to jump out of her skin.

“All right,” she said finally, “enough’s enough.  What the hell happened?”

“Explain, please,” Eames said.  He sounded tired, even to his own ears.

“Between you two,” Ariadne said, gesturing between the two men.  “Why won’t either of you look at each other?”

Eames stiffened in his seat.  Beside him, he heard Arthur stop fidgeting.

“You told me,” Ariadne said, speaking to Eames, “that your residual had something to do with Arthur, right?”

Eames hadn’t wanted to mention that in present company, but he swallowed and said, “That’s right.”

“And you,” Ariadne said, turning to Arthur, “you are a terrible liar.”

“I didn’t have a residual,” Arthur said stoutly, “if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Look Eames in the eye and say it.”

“I can’t look Eames in the eye if he won’t look at me.”

Ariadne groaned loudly.  “You two need a marriage counselor.”

“Perhaps you two do,” Eames said, standing, “but leave me out of it.”

“Where are you going?” Arthur asked.

“Out.  You two can work out whatever it is you need to.  I’ve already got my answers,” Eames said.

“Bullshit,” Ariadne responded.

“Get back over here,” Arthur snapped.

Clenching his jaw, Eames returned to his seat.

Ariadne flopped down on the sofa and swung her legs up.

“So,” she said, “now that we’ve got that squared away.  We’ve got a few problems that need answers.”

“Why did Cobb die?” Arthur asked.  “Why did we have residuals?”

Eames’ attention snapped to Arthur, as did Ariadne’s.  “So you admit it,” she said.  Her voice had a note of triumph.

Arthur rubbed his head.  His hair stuck up at odd angles in the back, like he’d been messing with it for hours.  Eames looked away as if scalded.

“Yes,” Arthur said.  “I didn’t want to think about it.  I still don’t, but…”

“But we need to figure out what went wrong,” Eames finished.

“All right, so cards on the table,” Ariadne said.  She cleared the coffee table that sat between the sofa and the two chairs.  “Let’s figure this out.”

Eames and Arthur both leaned closer to the table.  Ariadne stood to snag a set of hotel stationary off of a desk in the corner.

“I’d rather they were playing cards,” Eames said quietly.  Beside him, Arthur snorted.

“To be clear,” Ariadne said, twirling a pen between her fingers, “we don’t know what residuals do or why they happen.”

“No, we don’t,” Arthur answered.  “We do know that they can happen to anyone.”

“Isn’t that a given?” Ariadne asked.

“Not exactly.  You remember how if you go through dreamshare enough, you stop dreaming naturally?”  Ariadne nodded at Arthur.  “Well,” he continued, “residuals are known to happen to both those who can and cannot dream without the PASIV.  You had one, and you dream; I had one, and I haven’t had a natural dream in a few years.”

“Years?” Ariadne asked.

“Consequences of the PASIV, I’m afraid,” Eames interjected.  “We know it’s something with the chemicals and the PASIV.  That’s a start.”

“Is it possible that Yusuf had one and doesn’t remember?” Ariadne asked.  “I mean, that would be something, if we all had a residual.  We could narrow down what happened and why.”

“That doesn’t help us,” Eames pointed out.  “Unless we can explain why Cobb dropped dead and we didn’t.”

“Best explanation,” Arthur interjected, “is that he didn’t actually come up from limbo.”

“That wouldn’t kill him,” Eames insisted.  “He’d be senile and a human vegetable, but he’d have a pulse.”

The three fell silent again as they tried to cobble some explanation together.

“What did they ask you?” Arthur asked suddenly.  “In the interrogation, I mean.”

“We should ask you,” Eames said.  “You’re the one who was in there nearly the whole morning.”

“They only asked me basic questions,” Ariadne supplied.  “If I knew Cobb, if I knew any of the other first class passengers.  I was in and out in less than half an hour.”

Eames pointed at Ariadne.  “Likewise,” he said.

Arthur hunched over.  “Guess I got the short end, didn’t I?” he said mirthlessly.

“What did they ask _you_?” Ariadne pressed.

Arthur rubbed his head again.  Eames could see that he was scratching at the back of his neck.

“They started the same way,” Arthur said, “but they wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“They didn’t believe you?” Ariadne asked.

Arthur shrugged.  “I guess I’m a worse liar than I thought.  They asked me about the puncture marks on Cobb’s arm, and it spiraled out from there.”

“What did you tell them?”

“As close to the truth as I could, that he had been in high spirits boarding the flight, that I’d found no drug paraphernalia on him—basic stuff.”

Ariadne’s phone rang, and she pulled it out of her pocket.

“Miles,” she said simply, answering as she moved to the far side of the room.

Eames leaned back in his chair and tried not to eavesdrop.  “I need a drink,” he announced to the air.

“Eames,” Arthur said, looking at his hands.  “I need to talk to you.”

“Talk away,” Eames said.

“In private,” Arthur supplied.  At that moment, Ariadne hung up.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.  Eames and Arthur watched as she haphazardly threw her belongings back into her bag.  “He booked me a flight and it leaves in less than two hours.”

Arthur looked like he meant to say something, but his mouth snapped shut at the last minute.  Ariadne looked to Eames.

“It’s all right,” Eames said.  “This is reality.  We’ll figure out Cobb and the rest of it later.  You take care of yourself.”

“Thank you,” Ariadne said.  “If I don’t see you again…”  She took a deep breath.  “You take care of yourself, too.”  She looked to Arthur.  “Do you have a room?  You can stay here, if you like.”

“Sure,” Arthur said.

Eames pursed his lips as he turned back to Ariadne.  “Take care,” he said again.  “I’ll mind him and the rest.  Go build your wonderful designs in reality.”

Ariadne smiled brightly and left.

* * *

The bar was a nice affair, if rather too sleek for Eames’ taste.  He preferred places with more booze, less aesthetic.  Eames nursed a martini.  Beside him, Arthur groaned into the bar.

“Have a drink,” Eames said.  It was the first they’d spoken to one another since Ariadne left.  “Do you some good.”

Arthur picked himself up off of the wood.  Eames was good enough not to tell them that he had indentations on his face from laying in one place.  Eames still wasn’t sure why Arthur had melted down so spectacularly after Ariadne left, but he was determined to have him put to rights before setting off on his own road home.

“Can’t,” Arthur said.  Eames clucked.  “Don’t want to.”

“Fine.  Don’t lay there looking like a sop, though.”

Arthur got himself a glass of water from an irritable bartender and held onto it.

“He’s dead,” Arthur said finally.

Eames took another sip of his martini.  “Yes,” he said.  “He’s dead.”

“I tried,” Arthur started, but he could not finish his thought.

Eames shrugged.  “It’s over,” he said.

“That’s it for you, isn’t it?”

Eames stared at his drink.  “It has to be,” he said.  “There’s nothing to be done.  There’s no explanation.”

“But we had residuals.”

“You sound like Ariadne.”  Eames swirled his martini a few times, watching the liquor slosh around the lip of the glass.  “We had residuals.  Neither they nor any other form of dreamshare have ever killed anyone.”

“Except Mal,” Arthur said.

“That was Cobb.”

“She killed herself because of a dream.”

“She killed herself because of what Cobb convinced her to do in a dream,” Eames corrected.  “If he hadn’t been involved, she wouldn’t have gotten that idea.”

“You don’t know that,” Arthur said.

“I know that you’re behaving like a petulant child,” Eames snapped.  “He crossed a line and refused to tell anyone.  Now he’s dead.  There’s not much to do, Arthur.”

“He crossed a line,” Arthur said.  He sat up a little straighter, and something in his posture made Eames try to mirror it.  “Like you?” Arthur asked.  “You can’t look me in the eye, can you?”

“Can _you_?” Eames shot back, quieter than he’d intended.

“I don’t know,” Arthur admitted.  He drummed his fingers on the bar.  “You talked with Ariadne about making projections,” he said finally.  His voice was pinched.

“Yes,” Eames said, thinking back to what Ariadne had said earlier when she gave her recap.  He’d only been half-listening.  The other half had been preoccupied with the matter of Arthur sitting next to him, apparently there on Ariadne’s request.

“Have you made them before?”

Eames laughed.  “Of course.  She didn’t mention?”

“She just said that you two had talked about them,” Arthur said.  The discomfort in his voice was so profound that Eames found the courage to look at Arthur’s shoulder.

“Is something wrong?” Eames asked.

Arthur swallowed.  “Yes.  In the residual, I—”  Arthur cut himself short and took a long drink of his water.

“You what?” Eames asked with as much patience as he could muster.

Arthur slammed his glass down and stood.  “Never mind.”

Eames threw down some money and made to follow him as he walked away.

“Now hold on a moment,” Eames said.

“Forget it,” Arthur said, distracted.  “You’re right.  It’s over, that’s the end of it.”

“ _Arthur_.”

Arthur spun to face Eames.  It struck Eames then just sort of picture they must present: two men standing just a little too close in a bar, one of them pleasantly buzzed and under-dressed, the other sober and altogether too well-dressed, doing their best to shout at each other whilst all but whispering and looking pointedly away from one another.  Anyone who had even half a brain would think they were a couple having that last big fight.

“I had a residual,” Arthur spat.  “You— You and I were together.  My projection of you was there and it convinced me that I was in reality.  The world was burning down around us and everyone was dead but I _trusted you_.”  Eames swallowed, his pulse in his ears and his head full of cotton, but Arthur was still talking.  “Then there were _two of you_ and I died and woke up and I can’t fucking look you in the eye because I know what I saw and it was—”

Arthur looked like he was going to be sick and took in an enormous lungful of air.  Eames led him to a table near the back of the bar and sat him down.

“Let me get this straight,” Eames said, trying to keep his voice level.  “You had a residual.  I was there.  Where was the team?”

“Dead,” Arthur said.  “Or some such.  We never found them.”

“But you had me with you,” Eames pressed.  Arthur groaned into his hands.  “You built a projection of me, and it was there with you.  A projection separate from the ones that arise out of just knowing someone.”

“That’s right,” Arthur spat.  “Mock me for it all you like.”

“No, that’s—” Eames took a deep breath.  “I believe we had similar residuals.”

Arthur looked up sharply.

“Long story short,” Eames said, scratching the back of his head, “I have a projection of you.  It came to help me when the team was being hunted down.  It tried to keep me in the residual.  The real projection of you killed me and woke me up.”

Arthur’s expression, once mixed with condescension and self-loathing, melted into something else entirely before hardening with concern.

“Ariadne,” he said.

Eames hit his head.  “Yes, she was there.  You killed her animated corpse, in case you were curious.  It’s how I knew it was reality.  You’d never kill your lover girl, now, would you?”

Arthur’s mouth hung open for a good few seconds.  “Eames, there’s so much wrong in what you just said that I don’t know where to start, so I’m not going to bother.  If we both had matching residuals, what happened to Ariadne?”

“You think there’s a pattern?” Eames asked.  It was a stupid question because two matching dreams were obviously a pattern, but—

“Where was she flying out of?” Arthur asked, standing.

“LAX,” Eames supplied, then added, “obviously.”

Arthur grasped one of Eames’ arms and bodily pulled him away from the table.  “We need to hurry,” Arthur was saying.  “I’ve got an idea.”

Eames followed Arthur to the lobby before he yanked his arm back.

“Tell me what this idea is first,” Eames insisted.

“Yusuf drugged us,” Arthur said simply.

Eames took a stabilizing breath.  “Obviously,” he said.  “We went under.  It was a dream.  Drugs were involved.”

Arthur looked like he was moments away from hitting someone, namely Eames.  “That wasn’t what I meant and you know it,” Arthur growled.  “Yusuf’s the only one other than Saito who’s claimed not to have had a residual.  Did you see him wake up?”

Eames made a face.  “Of course not.  I was in front of Fischer looking at the nose of the plane.”

“Listen,” Arthur said.  “What if—just listen, don’t make that face—what if Yusuf woke up first.  He gave us something to stay under a little while longer—something that would give us all a residual.”

Eames shut his eyes.  “Bollocks,” he said.  He put his hands together under his chin and forced himself to look at Arthur.  “Even if he had,” Eames continued, “even if everything you’ve just said is true, _why_?”

Arthur licked his lips.

“You think he killed Cobb.”  It wasn’t a question.

“Is there another explanation?”

Eames sighed.  “Of course there is.  He died in his sleep.  Happens all the time.”

“Not during dreamshare.”

“I’m not saying that he died in the dream, Arthur,” Eames muttered, trying to keep his voice down.  “I’m saying that he died in reality.  Consider this.  Maybe he had a heart attack, maybe there was something wrong and he _dropped dead_.  That would mean he never came up from limbo because there was nothing to bring up.  That would mean that we woke up to a corpse because he’d been dead for the time that we all had our residuals, for the time that we lost track of him there at the end.  Not just seconds, but minutes.”

Arthur took a deep breath and Eames held up a hand.

“I know,” Eames said.  “I know you want an explanation, a rationale—anything to go on.  He’s dead.  He’s your friend, and he’s dead.”

Arthur closed his eyes.  “He’s dead,” Arthur echoed.

“Yes,” Eames said.  “He’s gone.  There’s nothing we can do for him.”

“But if Yusuf—”

“Yusuf has no motive,” Eames said gently.  “He was already going to get Cobb’s full share of the profits, so it couldn’t have been money.  Other than Ariadne, Yusuf was the only one with a fraction of an idea of what we were getting into going down there, so it couldn’t have been the sort of righteous indignation that made me want to strangle Cobb while we were still in dreamshare.  Do _you_ see a pattern here?”  Arthur said nothing.  “Come on, Arthur.”

“I see,” Arthur said softly.  “I don’t want to, but I do.”

“Then come back upstairs,” Eames said.  “Let’s not do this in private.”

* * *

Eames ushered Arthur into an elevator and was immediately reminded of taking the same trip up with Ariadne not a few hours before.  The contrast between past and present was striking: Arthur was silent and morose, clenching and unclenching his hands.  Eames wished Ariadne hadn’t left if only because she’d know what to do with Arthur.  Eames’ ideas—drink and sleep—were certainly not Arthur’s style.

“Come on, then,” Eames said, pushing Arthur into Ariadne’s room.  It was then that he realized something odd.  “Didn’t you have luggage?”

Arthur’s face flushed.  “I went looking for you,” he admitted.  “I guess it was while you were at brunch with Ariadne.  I convinced the concierge to tell me which room was yours.  I broke into your room and left my things  there.”  Eames gave him a look, and Arthur frowned.  “I knew it would be safe there.  I waited up there for you to come back until Ariadne texted me.”

“I don’t remember her doing that,” Eames said.

“She was worried about you,” Arthur replied.

Eames sat back down in the chair that he’d claimed earlier.  “Well, never fear,” he said.  “The unshakable Eames is unshakable indeed.”

Arthur fell onto the sofa.  “Unshakable, huh?” he asked.  He looked at Eames.  “I’m sorry for going off on you.”

Eames shrugged.  “As am I.”

Arthur’s face flushed.  “I just wanted to say— Just because I have a projection of you…” Arthur screwed his eyes shut.  “I’m not a monster, all right.  I have principles.  I don’t— I know what some people do, and I don’t—”

“Is this your way of trying to say that you don’t use a projection with my face slapped on it as a sex toy?” Eames asked, trying to infuse his tone with as much levity as possible given the circumstances.  Given Arthur’s disapproving glare, Eames counted it a success; he’d always known that Arthur lacked a sense of humor.  “Shame.  I’m told I’m a wonderful masturbatory device.”  Arthur chucked a pillow at Eames’ head.

“Don’t be disgusting,” Arthur said.

Eames shrugged.  “If it makes you feel any better, my personal projection of you is for if I ever have to forge you.  I’ve never forced anything, projection or otherwise, to engage in sexual relations with myself.”

Arthur sat up.  “I’m starting to regret not getting a drink downstairs,” he said.

“You’re in a state of shock,” Eames said.  “You lost a friend.  I think if you drank now, I’d be fishing you out of a toilet come morning.”

Arthur frowned and sagged in his seat.

“I wanted to stay.”

“What?” Eames asked.

Arthur didn’t repeat himself.  He merely stood.  “I’ll get my things out of your room,” he said.

Eames was torn.  Half of him wanted to ask Arthur not to bother.  What he said instead was, “I’ll come up with you.  It’s my room, after all.”

Arthur flinched when Eames came close, but he gave no other indication that he’d heard Eames.  Together, they walked to the elevators and went up the handful of floors to Eames’ room.

“I’d say welcome, but you’ve already been here,” Eames tried to joke, but his words fell flat.  Arthur gathered his bag in silence and tried to head for the door.

“Stop,” Eames said, standing on front of the exit.

“Eames, please move,” Arthur said.

Eames shook his head no.  “What do you mean, you wanted to stay?”

Arthur took a deep, bracing breath.  “Eames, get out of my way.”

“Arthur—”

It had been far too long since Eames last fought with anyone in reality to react appropriately.  Arthur’s fist slammed into his cheek with an unexpected ferocity, and Eames stumbled back into the door.

“ _Move_ ,” Arthur seethed.  Eames’ cheek stung, and he did not move.

“You didn’t want to leave the residual,” Eames said finally.  Arthur’s eyes widened, and he took a step back.  Eames laughed artlessly.  “You didn’t want to leave.  That’s what you meant.”

“Eames—”

“You wanted to stay,” Eames repeated.  The notion didn’t make sense to him.  “Why?”

Eames knew the answer as soon as he’d asked the question.  Arthur looked a cross between hurt and betrayed.

“Arthur,” Eames said.  It was a struggle to keep his voice level.  “Do you have something that you want to tell me?”

“No.”

“Is there something you _need_ to tell me?”

Arthur’s expression flickered as he considered the question.

All at once, Arthur sunk.  He managed to sink into a chair, and he managed to do it looking like the cover of a men’s fashion magazine, but Eames knew what the absolute loss of hope looked like, and at the moment, it so closely resembled Arthur that Eames felt himself sinking, too.

“This is humiliating,” Arthur said.  Eames waited.  “I’ve been building a projection of you.”  Arthur twisted his left thumb until Eames was sure it would snap.  “It started as an outlet.  It ended as—”  Arthur took a breath and started again.  “I gave you traits you don’t have, traits I wanted you to have.  In the residual, it came back to bite me.”

Arthur looked at the floor.  “I made a projection of you,” he confessed, “and I made it love me.”

A moment of silence passed and Arthur looked up, his eyes full of a vicious hurt.  “Go on,” Arthur said, “laugh.  Make it a joke.  Or are you going to spin this out to try to make me feel better?  If you were considering that, don’t.  I don’t want your pity.”

“Arthur,” Eames said.  Arthur stood up.  “ _Arthur_.”

Arthur moved to the door.

“You know, I never credited you for having an imagination.  I can’t tell if I was right or not.  I’m not sure what all traits you gave me, but I can guarantee you that at least one of them was spot on,” Eames called, hoping he wasn’t making a terrific mistake.  Arthur _was_ in shock, he wasn’t making good decisions, but— 

Arthur stopped by the door.

Eames swallowed and said, “And, so you know, even in my imagination, even with every tool that a forger has at his disposal, I couldn’t imagine a world where you loved me.  You loved Ariadne.  I made you be kind to me, I suppose.  You came to help me when I needed you, gave me space and warmth and as much of a relationship as I could imagine you doing.  Really, darling, you’re lightyears ahead of me.”

Arthur turned to face Eames.  He looked at him—really looked at him—and Eames looked back.

“Eames,” Arthur said.  “You think I love Ariadne.”

Eames didn’t have what it would have taken to break their eye contact now.  “Heaven knows she’s the only one I’ve ever seen you physically intimate with,” Eames said.

“But you think I love her,” Arthur pressed.

“Arthur, I—”

“You are very, very wrong, Mr. Eames.”

Arthur walked back to Eames, moving slowly.  Eames belatedly realized that it was in case Eames felt the need to cut and run.  Rather than doing that, Eames settled himself in and grinned.  Arthur placed his hands on either armrest, effectively boxing Eames in.

“Your move,” Arthur said.  

Eames didn’t need to be told twice.  He grabbed ahold of Arthur’s tie with one hand and the back of Arthur’s head with the other and surged up to meet Arthur’s lips.  The sound Arthur made was _obscene_ and Eames drank up every drop of it.  His fingers sunk into Arthur’s hair as their lips slid against each other, a slippery mess of lips and tongue and teeth and breath.  Eames made a noise he hadn’t known he could make as Arthur took control of the kiss, pressing into Eames from all sides.

Eames pulled back to breathe, but even with his mouth free, he felt he couldn’t get enough oxygen.  This was _Arthur_ and they were _together_ and—

Arthur all but yanked Eames out of the chair, and the momentum had them stepping over the coffee table and onto the couch.  Arthur grunted as his back hit the cushions and Eames straddled him, grinding into Arthur’s leg as they renewed the kiss.  Eames let Arthur take control.  It was Arthur’s turn to dig his nails into Eames’ scalp, to hold him in place while he utterly ravished his mouth.  Eames was so far gone that he hardly noticed that one of Arthur’s hands had strayed lower, rubbing circles into the front of Eames’ trousers.

Eames had to break their kiss, but not for air.  He bit into one of his hands to keep from mewling like a schoolboy.  Arthur chuckled in his ear.

“Oh, _Eames_ ,” Arthur murmured.  His voice was dark and deep with heady arousal, and Eames gave up trying to hold in the noises.  “What I could have been doing if I’d known.”

“We can do now, darling,” Eames panted, pushing against Arthur’s hand.  He could feel Arthur smirk without looking at him, the cheeky bastard.  Unfortunately for him, Eames didn’t play fair, and in moments, Eames had rolled them so that he was on the bottom with Arthur kneeling above him.  Arthur’s breath stuttered and nearly came to a halt as Eames sucked a mark below his ear and all but shoved his hand into Arthur’s pants to stroke him.

Eventually, they’d have to talk.  There was a dead man and no explanation, and dreams that defied all expectations and regulation.

For now, in a hotel room in Los Angeles, all of that could wait.


End file.
